


I Object

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Happily Ever After, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sad John, True Love, Weddings, fic request, yeah i did that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8784988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: It's John Watson's wedding day and he should be the happiest man in the world right? A perfectly timed message changes everything just as the minister reads out one final question.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyFirstistheFourth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyFirstistheFourth/gifts).



> Myfirstisthefourth has the patience of a saint and has been waiting for this fic for a million trillion bajillion years (some exaggeration might occur due to author induced guilt).
> 
> Here you go, and I hope it's everything you dreamed of.

 

 

Mary was smiling up at him as he helped her into the vehicle. She seemed so happy, so John did his best to rearrange the muscles on his face to emulate actual delight into his expression but it was difficult. They had been dating for so long, he’d been helped by her so much. _That was love right? He loved Mary, and she loved him. That’s why they were getting married._ John tried to ignore how hollow the words sounded, even in his own head, and it made him feel a bit guilty for not sharing the degree of joy his fiancée was experiencing. Firmly he chastised himself. _Mary made him happy when he thought he’d never be happy again. It was a pale sort of happiness, but compared to the utter blackness that had consumed him for so long, it was better, much better_. When he was with her the days didn’t seem so empty, his bed was warm with her soft body nestled against his, and it was nice to have someone to _be there_ for. When they’d first met, he’d been so hollow, a roaring vast empty wasteland with no purpose. She’d given him some. Mary seemed to like the effortlessness of being with John who had been tamed by grief, and was too broken to resist.

Mary was a quite demanding girlfriend to have, but at least she kept John busy, and he appreciated that. She had set the pace in their odd courtship, clearly relishing having all the say in everything. John just went along, and it was a quality Mary approved of. She had a timeline in life, one that she was behind on already. Mary had confessed that she’d meant to have married by the time she reached her third decade, should have had at least two children by now, and often felt under-appreciated at the hospitals she’d previously worked in. Now she was full of smiles, hope, and approval. It was perfect, really it was. Their clinic was a success, the other two doctors she’d found to partner with were alright people, and everything felt…stable. Mary asked an old colleague named David to fill in for John while they went on their honeymoon, so they would on their own for the better part of a month. John didn’t even ask about their past working relationship with the other doctors. It wasn’t his business and he simply didn’t have the emotional resources to be curious.

John felt that he should be experiencing a degree of contentment because he was fulfilling a long-assumed plan. He wasn’t. Yes, he’d fallen in love, and planned to wed. He had a career, and a calendar filled with appointments, his every minute used up and accounted for. _That’s what normal people do, right? Fall in love? Move on? Let the past be the past? Maybe it wasn’t the standing on the edge of a volcano feeling he’d had the last time he’d fallen in love, that dangerous, complicated, unconventional, but euphoric state he’d once enjoyed, but seriously, how many times did that happen to a person in one lifetime? Ever? For most people it happened only once if it happened at all._ For John it had happened already, it would never happen again, and no matter how incredible it had been at the time there was no turning back the clock. He soldiered on, and silently promised to do his best to be a good partner. He enjoyed being needed, he _needed_ to be needed, so despite the cavernous emptiness inside, John smiled at his soon-to-be-wife.

Patting his cheek, Mary had said, “Wherever Sherlock is, he’s happy for you. He’d want this.” It came off as condescending, but woodenly he made himself smile at her. _Mary had no idea who she was talking about. She had never known Sherlock. If she’d ever met him, Mary would know that Sherlock Holmes was the most selfish man in the world, and he had coveted John’s time like no other. If he had met Mary while the consulting detective had been alive, the insane bugger would have done everything to disrupt their time together to keep his blogger all to himself_.

John nodded regardless, showing that he was at least paying some attention to what was going on, though she didn’t really need his input. Mary merely progressed to the next part of her day, mentally ticking off a list of tasks to accomplish, all organized without his participation. He supposed that it was what made her such a good receptionist, that never-ending need to sort out timelines and destinations, mapping every minute of his day. That was fine with John as well, more than fine. He was a soldier, and could take an order, living his daily life in a kind of auto-piloted fashion. He might have resented it at one time but now was soothing. Mary was bubbly, relentlessly cheerful, and always had a list of chores ready for any spare minute that came John’s way. He was pleased to do so, or at least, it didn’t _really_ bother him to be endlessly told what to get on with. _After all, Mary was the one he was signing on with for the long haul, it wasn’t her fault that he was settling for second choice. She knew how much Sherlock’s death had affected him, well, he’d told her at any rate_. He tried to make it up to her by being attentive, and responsible.

John looked at his bride-to-be. They were in a cab on the way to meet the rest of their party. It was going to be at a church even though John hadn’t been to one since he was very small. He believed in a god, sort of, but he didn’t really feel the need to choose a particular one. When he’d been shot in battle, his prayers had gone out to any deity who would listen. Mary had been particular about the church too, fussing about the location until it had been booked exactly as she wanted. It had cost him dearly, but Mary had simply scheduled him more hours at the clinic until he could afford to make her wishes come true. It made time go by so he didn’t care, and focusing on his patients was a job he actually loved, he’d never be a surgeon again but he could still help people in other ways and that fact made him feel almost okay most of the time.

Now his _fiancée_ was texting someone, angled so that she could see John but he couldn’t see her screen. Her smile filled with a kind of secret happiness, her eyes brighter and merrier than ever. He might have been able to piece together her sent messages just from how her hands moved, but didn’t he bother. They were riding in a long white car that was heavily decorated with paper flowers. It felt strange to do so, especially since he was squeezed against one door due to the size of Mary’s wedding gown. During one of the wedding planning parties she’d thrown, Janine, the maid of honor, explained to Mary it was bad luck for John to see her on the morning of their wedding. Mary had laughed out loud, “What in the world could possibly happen? We’re coming from the same flat, should we take different cars?”

That comment now made him think over the last couple of months. _Mary had arranged everything for the wedding. She didn’t seek John’s opinion, not once_. Their engagement story was anything but passionate, much like their entire relationship. Mary had declared her interest in John, and asked him out. He’d said yes, too tired to fight the loneliness any longer. She organised regular dates. Dates turned into weeks of extremely heavy hinting on her part. Those weeks had led to the disastrous attempted proposal that nearly sent John into a panic attack in the fancy restaurant he’d booked them at. He’d been so nervous he’d nearly been ill right there at the table. There at _The Landmark_ , the idea of being married, and _not living on Baker Street_ had instantly made John feel horribly adrift. His stomach had roiled with upset, and without a word John had left Mary sitting alone with their uneaten pudding, fleeing the restaurant. He didn’t answer his mobile, and spent the night walking the damp dark streets of London for hours.

He’d unintentionally left the ring behind, but Mary just put it on, unvoiced question answered. John hadn’t gotten a word out. He didn’t mention the regret he felt after he saw it on her hand. Apparently they were engaged, and since John had _almost_ proposed to her already he went along with a smile and a kiss, even though his heart wasn’t in it. They didn’t discuss it further, besides, he was tired of being isolated, tired of being sad, tired of always feeling like the world was a mere shadow of its former glory. Mary didn’t make the sun shine but the twinkle in her eye always brightened John a bit. They didn’t have very much in common but she seemed to keep herself busy with an array of hobbies. Mary didn’t seem to want much from John actually.

Now, standing outside the church, a crowd of attendees waiting for the bride to dress her in her wedding finery, John breathed deep and tried to find a smidgeon of excitement for what was supposed to be the most important day of his life. Mary’s gown was spectacular. It was lace, fitting her curves just right, making her seem younger and thinner than she actually was. Everything around them had been carefully chosen to compliment the bride as much as possible, the flowers a match for her tinted hair, all the arrangements a subtle mirror of her appearance. All the yellow made John feel sallow and old.

Mary had also arranged a rental suit for John eventually when it became clear to her that he hadn’t bothered looking into it. It was a bit baggy in the legs and the waist was very straight, and it originally made John look a bit odd but once again he didn’t really care. Much to his great surprise Mycroft Holmes stepped in by sending a car to fetch the doctor right from work, and brought him to his private tailor to have Mary’s rented suit fitted to John so he looked decent enough, and not like a child wearing his father’s clothes. Now Mary left him in a small room wearing his inexpensive outfit as she went to join her retinue. She was surrounded by giggling women and girls while John sat in lonely silence, just obediently waiting for the next step, and the next step, and the next step. Mary was happy as long as he did what he was asked, there was no one to share this supposedly momentous occasion with him. He had no real friends…not since…

Bleakness gripped John like it did so often, and he tried to shake it off, but it was tenacious. John could barely think _his_ name, and even now John felt his eyes redden. _This was not the time_ so John swallowed hard and began to breathe carefully. He couldn’t get lost to grief, not now, not on the day of his wedding to Mary Morstan. John couldn’t _continue_ to grieve the loss of the best most special friend he’d ever had, but three years or not, the pain had barely lessened.

Closing his eyes John thought of Sherlock, his secret smiles and laughing eyes. People thought the brilliant detective was cold and heartless but he _wasn’t_. Sherlock had been filled with child-like wonder at the entire world, and his scope of interest was so vast most people didn’t even realize that he had the universe in his eyes. Sherlock had taken John’s breath away, and there was nothing in the world like being at the side of the world’s _only_ consulting detective. Sherlock was barely a memory to most people now, a forgotten cautionary tale about playing with fire, only it wasn’t just Sherlock who’d gotten burned. John had been seared down to his soul by the devastation his death had caused. With Sherlock gone John had been forced to stumble onward, a solitary figure filled with pain, and jagged shards where his heart used to be. How bitter to learn how deeply he had felt only _after_ it was far too late.

The soldier forced himself to think about his bride, firmly putting Sherlock back into the corner of his mind where John kept him. John didn’t have a mind palace per se but he did have a series of mental montages that he liked to play over, all his little adventures with Sherlock where they had run as they would and laughed at danger. He reminded himself that he _loved_ his soon-to-be-wife, he _did_. He was pretty sure he did. _Mary was amusing. She had laughing eyes too, and a big bright smile. Mary was encouraging and witty, fun and determined. She wanted to date so they dated. He could have said no, but never did. She chose all their activities though John did the paying. She rarely asked if he wanted to do something, she merely made arrangements and looked at him expectantly, her smile at the ready. She wanted to move in together so reluctantly John quit 221 B Baker Street and moved in with her_ , “That place is so run down John,” Mary had complained, “It smells in there, like a chemist’s bin or something. It stays on my clothes whenever I come over.”

Mrs. Hudson was unfailingly polite to Mary but John noticed that his old landlady never once offered Mary coffee-cake or her ever-present biscuits. He was alone when John handed his key over Mrs. Hudson. She looked at him with sad eyes and told him she understood and of everyone, _she_ _did_ , “He was the love of your life John. Oh I know you two weren’t like _that_ no matter what anyone thought but it doesn’t change it, does it? I _know_ you loved him and I _know_ how… he…” He didn’t argue, especially when Mrs. Hudson began to cry. How could he? For his part, she was spot on, and part of his endless grief was the regret that he’d never be able to find out if her unspoken words were just as true. Sherlock was gone. They held each other one last time before he left. Mrs. Hudson dabbed her eyes before giving John his key back, “Mycroft offered to lease the flat. You don’t have to worry about me. He made some mention of perhaps making it a memorial to his brother but I suspect he’s just going to seal it up. That poor sweet child has all that money and power but he’d give it all up to have his only brother back. This is all he could do to help cope. I don’t think I could have rented it out to anyone else anyway. You may as well keep your room for storage, I’m sure Mary won’t want any of your bachelor things. I’ll let Mycroft know.”

Mrs. Hudson was right. Mary hadn’t wanted a single thing in their new home that reminded her that he’d had a life before they met, so John kept all his old uniforms, his medals, his old jumpers and his worn old coat all hung upstairs in his old room at 221 B Baker Street. With a sad smile he boxed away all the strange disguises that Sherlock had pieced together for them, their past stake-outs sometimes requiring a bit of camouflage. The fireman outfit gave him mixed feelings. He was still mad at Sherlock for tricking him into wearing it, but at the same time, he felt nostalgic about all the silly things they’d done to solve a case. The only addition to John’s memorabilia filled wardrobe was a single blue scarf hung carefully on a hook next to John’s dog tags. For weeks after he’d moved out, John would stop by just to linger in the silence as he looked over their old books and pictures but he hadn’t for a long time, and he never went into Sherlock’s room. He could ask only so much of himself.

The last visit had been ages ago because John now lived an entirely new life. He had all new jumpers that Mary had bought him, a trendy new coat that she had picked out, and worked at the clinic with her on a schedule that she arranged. John didn’t care enough to fight it. He didn’t want to make decisions anyway. He just did his job and let Mary plan whatever she wanted. When it was time, John got up and went out front with the minister. His side of the church had been discretely filled with extra friends from Mary’s side. Mrs. Hudson was there smiling bravely at him, but his sister Harry hadn’t shown up at all. There was no one else until _Mycroft Holmes_ walked in and sat near the back right next to a man who was definitely _Greg Lestrade_. John felt a weird twist inside as the sight of them brought back a flood of ill-timed memories. Stubbornly he turned away, facing the blankness in front of him rather than deal with the fading colors of his past.

 _How would the two of them have found out about the wedding?_ John hadn’t spoken to anyone associated with his old life in ages. He decided that Mary must have gone through his mobile again and used his contact list, deliberately avoiding all his old army mates. She didn’t approve of violence, and though she’d never lectured him outright, John knew Mary did not care for his military past, and so he did not speak of it. He snorted at the obviousness of her rummaging through his personal effects. She was worse than Sherlock when it came to privacy. She thought nothing of reading John’s emails, and even opening the paper mail he got before he’d had a chance to look at it. John had nothing to hide so he barely reprimanded her on it though he respected her privacy and left her things alone. He didn’t even ask about the dozens of fat envelopes that she received in the mail, handwritten missives, all eagerly received and hoarded away. He glanced over the congregation of mostly unfamiliar faces and took in the stern, patriarchal façade of the last remaining Holmes. This time the jolt of memories was fonder, and now John was glad they were there.

The minister droned on and on, and John was forced to repeat long convoluted admonitions and promises that sounded to him like he was giving himself over mind, body, and soul to Mary while she was promising nothing, and for the first time he wondered at the wording. Mary had written them after he demonstrated no interest in doing it himself. He couldn’t think of a way to promise her anything that made it sound like he wasn’t the shattered wreck of a man he knew he really was. To keep her happy, he’d simply learned to accede to her wishes at all times, never struggling against her, or attempting in any way to have anything for himself. It made her very happy. Whenever Mary smiled over to him though, he smiled back even when each new grin a teetered at the edge of becoming a grimace. He felt dead inside, and wondered if he was doing Mary a grave disservice by continuing this, but then, he’d been this way for the entirety of their relationship, she knew what she was marrying. John still struggled to connect to the moment. It felt wrong now but he’d spoken the words as he’d held her hand in front of their witnesses. He’d gone too far to turn back now. At long last the minister was looking around seriously to all who had gathered, and asked the final question in a loud clear voice, “If these two should _not_ be wed, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

There was glorious silence and Mary was beaming. Her smile evaporated when every single mobile in the church went off simultaneously, even John’s, which shouldn’t have been possible because he was certain it was off. Mary had checked before giving it back to him. Now Mary was scowling at him as she pulled it out of his pocket and read the message along with everyone else. There was a large wave of murmurs because the message read _I object – SH_ and that was it.

John’s heart pounded as his entire body simply surged with adrenaline. His mind felt like it was buzzing and his hands trembled. _It couldn’t be. It could not possibly be! Not now, not on his wedding day?_ John whipped around and stared at Mycroft who was also looking at his phone. The man was pale, his hands shaking. He looked ill and shocked, and Lestrade was looking him over, his expression concerned. John looked at his mobile again after taking it back from Mary just as every notification went off a second time. _I object – SH._ A third notification popped up just on John’s phone. _221 B Baker Street. Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH_. Instinctively he kept it from view, holding his mobile close to his chest.

“John? Who is it? You don’t know anyone with the initials _SH_ except Sherlock, an _d he’s dead!”_ Mary was surprised when John pulled his hand from hers the second she spoke _his_ name. She had never understood, not really. Mary thought John was traumatized because he’d witnessed someone he knew die right in front of him, understandably a very upsetting ordeal for someone with PTSD. John might have been able to keep overlooking that _but_ she treated John’s grief like it was part and parcel of an unfixable problem she could only work around, and never try to heal. Mary was often careless in how she spoke about his old life, somehow believing that making light of his old stories was a good way to lift him out of his pervasive depression. In a way it had, but only because John hid that part of himself away from her rather than confront her about it. That had been manageable. This was unbearable.

John looked down at the woman he had nearly married for only a moment before he walked away without a word. He couldn’t _think_ at all, his body seemed to be moving of its own volition. John was aware that he should say something, apologize, _something_ but he didn’t. Not a sound escaped his tightly pressed lips. People were gasping in shock as he walked swiftly down the aisle alone, ignoring everyone around him except Mrs. Hudson who had an expression of almost painful hope on her face. John moved faster.

Outside a long black car awaited, parked behind the garish car reserved for the bride and groom, the driver already seated. _Anthea_. That meant the car belonged to Mycroft. Decision made John got in. For once her expression was one of surprised recognition when John slid into the back seat, “221 B Baker Street, as fast as you can.” The look of surprise was quickly replaced with one of professional attention, and the car left even as Mary burst out of the church with everyone hard on her heels, shouting John’s name fruitlessly. He didn’t look back and Anthea didn’t say a word the entire time.

John read and re-read the message a thousand times on the long drive back. _It had to be true, it had to be!_ John began to hope, and it was awful. He couldn’t bear it if this were a cruel trick being played. What if an old enemy had surfaced and decided to toy with John? It could happen. He might have just thrown away his new future on a distant hope. There was only one way to find out and John wanted to be back home instantly but traffic was horrible. There were endless delays but Anthea stayed calm, and smoothly took one detour after another until at long last they pulled up a spot right in front of Speedy’s. John’s Baker Street key was still in his pocket on his key ring. With shaking fingers, he let himself in and re-locked the door behind him. Staring at the steps as if he’d never seen them before John lifted a foot and began to climb.

It smelled like tobacco on the stairwell and John’s heart began to race once again. Using his old flat-key a second time he unlocked the flat and pushed the door open. The musty unlived in smell was gone. There was a particular shift in the air’s contents, something that John recognized on a primal level. There was a small beat-up looking laptop on the coffee table, programs running still. Standing beside the sofa, dressed in an impeccable suit that only highlighted how sickly the person in it looked, was the one soul John would have given anything to see again. “It’s you.” _It had to be. It was obvious he’d been hurt, Sherlock only held himself upright like that when he was seriously injured. Torso then, his face wasn’t unduly swollen, but all sorts of injuries could be masked with the right clothing. It was definitely Sherlock. No one had those eyes, or had hair that curled just so over their forehead, or lips that were just so_ …

“Hello John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded cool and detached the way he always did but his eyes, indeed his whole face, spoke loud volumes. Sherlock was alive and standing in front of John.

“You’re not dead.” John was in a stunned daze. The hope that he’d felt on the ride over had been vindicated but now he didn’t know how to feel or how to react, “I just left my bride at the altar to come here. _Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive._ _Sherlock was alive._ “I thought you were dead, and I was about to get married.”

Sherlock swayed a bit, his eyes fluttering and his nostrils flaring as distress blatantly gripped him, “No.” he said. “You cannot.”

“Well, not now. I don’t imagine Mary is very pleased with me. I’ve literally left her at the altar, I didn’t say a word. I just turned and left.” There was a long and uncomfortable silence. John broke it with a voice that didn’t hide how shattered he himself was, “Where _were_ you?” The pain of their separation saturated every syllable. John had missed Sherlock grievously every minute of each day.

The tall pale git didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, “ _Mary_.” Sherlock rolled her name around his mouth like he was tasting it. It obviously wasn’t palatable, because he spit it out a second time, “Mary _Morstan_. Oh, she’s good, so very good, isn’t she?”

John’s entire world was already topsy-turvy and he wasn’t sure if he was even hearing the words that Sherlock was speaking, “ _You were dead_! You fucker, why aren’t you dead? Where were you Sherlock? What _about_ Mary? Do you know her?”

“Do _you_?” shouted Sherlock. His eyes were glassy and feverish looking, his skin pale and sickly, a sheen of sweat dampening every exposed inch. He swayed again, his left hand clutching the mantle as he stared down at John. His voice dropped low, and he rasped out words that made John shake his head in confusion, “In the midnight hour, she cried…” he stopped speaking, his scowl too intense for him to be able to form words.

“Why are you quoting Billy Idol songs?” John was thoroughly confused. “Sherlock? Why are you alive? What are you trying to tell me?”

Sherlock stepped forward and he hissed out the rest of the refrain, “More, more, more.” He seemed to be willing John to understand, but John didn’t. He couldn’t put the clues together; it had been far too long since he’d been required to task himself like this. He felt slow and stupid, and he was beginning to get angry. Sherlock stepped forward, “She cried more, more more.”

“More, more, more?” repeated John. He was completely lost, “What do you mean, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stopped looking at John. His hand shakily scratched at his matted beard, his movements jittery and filled with anxiety, “More, more, more.” He kept say, “In the midnight hour.” He gripped the curls on the top of his head, absently rubbing at a long jagged scar that John now noticed ran along Sherlock’s hairline and disappeared behind his right ear, “It’s _more, more, more_.” Now he spoke firmly, as if stating the obvious conclusion, except only he seemed to know all the puzzle parts that needed to be put together to produce any sort of a picture. “Don’t you see? It’s more, more, more!”

John was still feeling a bit blindsided by everything, and frustration bubbled up, “I don’t fucking understand, Sherlock! You were dead! You died in front of me. You bloody well broke your head on the pavements in front of Bart’s and killed yourself! Why are you alive? What do you mean when you say more, more, more?” John heard his voice getting rougher, and realized tears were beginning to leak down his face. It felt like he was experiencing that horrible day all over again, where nothing made sense, and things had changed irrevocably no matter how he wished it to be otherwise, “I should be married by now!”

“ _Not to her!”_ roared Sherlock. Suddenly John found his shoulder’s being gripped hard by thin steely fingers, “You cannot marry her. _She will not have you!”_ he continued to shout, “She can’t! Not her! No, John! I will not let her win! I object. I object. I OBJECT!” The rage that gripped him clearly burned with ferocity.

“I don’t understand!” John heard himself shouting, his voice pitched high, and it made him want to laugh even as the tear kept rolling down his cheeks. _He was going crazy! He had to be. He’d cracked at last and nothing would make sense ever again._

Sherlock stilled, “The devil has two hands.” he stated. John blinked. “A left hand and a right hand. _Balance_. Yin and yang. Male and female.”

“One hand was male and the other was female?” John had no idea what to make of anything that Sherlock was saying, “Please, Sherlock, if you ever cared for me at all, please say something I can make sense of! I’m losing my mind here!” John’s tone was strident enough to make Sherlock focus intently on him and his voice steadied, “Please, just, just be plain.”

John was startled when Sherlock’s hand seemed to drift upward of it’s own accord. He blinked rapidly as Sherlock gently brushed the pad of his thumb over John’s jawline. He seemed to come to himself, stepping back and averting his gaze, his hand resuming its former position on the mantle, “I told you it was a trick. I jumped. I should have died but I did not, it was a near thing. It took me months to recover. Molly set me up in a private clinic with doctors she could trust, friends of hers. We owe her everything. _He_ thought he knew me better than I knew myself but he was wrong. The devil has one hand left. The slyest one. She’s as deadly as her brother, but he’s not a danger any more…no more, more, more.” Sherlock’s lucidity was fading again.

“You’re ill.” John declared at last, “You’re sick, Sherlock. Sit down at least, let me check you over, I know Mrs. Hudson keeps the med-kit updated.” _She’d once commented that it was very handy having Sherlock and John living upstairs. No matter what oddity she might temporarily require, she was sure to find something appropriate in their flat. Sherlock’s curiosity, and John’s practicality John’s comprehensive field surgery kit was fit into an old fashioned medical bag that Sherlock had bought him on a lark, back in their first year together. It was well-worn, and well-used. When John fetched it out, he returned to find Sherlock laying back on the sofa, draped over it exactly the way he used to_. John’s breath caught and his heart hammered so hard that he felt faint _. Sherlock was alive!_

“We don’t have time.” Sherlock tried to sit up but John pushed him back down, “We have to go, John. We’re targets here. This is the first place she’ll come looking.”

John didn’t wait to hear more. He left Sherlock on the sofa and ran upstairs. Throwing his old wardrobe open, John lifted the secret panel beneath his old army boots, and extracted his encased service revolver and the box of bullets that had lain safe for all this time. He hurried back down the steps, he found Sherlock weakly trying to sit. Pushing the thin man back down again John filled the chambers before checking it once again and setting it safely on the coffee table. He needed to examine Sherlock, but at least he was armed now. He had no idea who might come for Sherlock, but he’d kill anyone who tried to take the detective away from him. “You’re dehydrated.”

“Obvious, John. I’m also malnourished, physically taxed, suffering from multiple lacerations on my back, at least one of which is likely septic, sleep deprived, and extremely anxious to get the fuck away from Baker Street. However, what I am _not_ , is _dead_ , though that might change some time in the next twenty-four hours. We have to go _now_ , John! Bring the bag if you need to, but we have to go go go.”

“Where to?” demanded John, “Where are we going? Someplace safer? Safe against what? Or should I say whom? Who is this woman you are worried about?”

“The long-term solution. The right hand was for quick fixes and painful lessons. The left hand was for retribution and suffering. Sebastian Moran is dead at last. He was hard to find, but not as difficult as she. I looked too far when I should have been looking close.” Sherlock’s dazed confusion melted away and he glared at John, “You cannot wed Mary Morstan. She’s the last piece, the end of the song. There is no more, more, more but until the last note is sung, there is still danger.”

John had serious concerns about Sherlock’s mental stability, and subtly he tried to examine his friend for signs of drug usage. Sherlock undid his buttons with annoyance and bared his torso, already wrapped and professionally bandaged, “Molly.” John gaped. Sherlock’s entire body looked bruised and lacerated. John would need to peel back the coverings to see exactly what had happened but it was obviously a lot of physical violence.

“Yes, Molly and her band of awkward compatriots. She’s not so good with the living but she has the admiration of many due to her skills with the dead. It’s entirely surprising how wide a network Doctor Hooper has managed to establish. I don’t believe James Moriarty quite understood how clever she really is,” Sherlock was grim, “He should have been nicer to her. I was an arse, but he was awful. She showed him! I helped her and she helped me, and finally, we can finish helping each other.” Sherlock shifted until he could grip John’s upper arms with his hands, “James _Moriarty_. Sebastian _Moran_. Mary _Morstan_. _MorMorMor_. There’s no more, _MorMorMor_. She’s the last. I’ve killed Moran at long last. Moriarty shot himself on the roof before I could find out who his associates were. That’s where I was, that’s what I was doing. Sebastian was there to kill me, and then you if I didn't jump, so I jumped. It was either I die first, or we both die, so I chose for you to survive. I didn’t learn until later that Moriarty had sent in a sleeper agent, someone to keep hurting you, to torment you, someone who knew _I_ knew what they were doing. She can go for years, she would have broken you down bit by bit, and ground you away until there was nothing left of John Watson. Your wedding was the lure I could not resist. She’s brought me back to London to save you. She’s coming John and we have to go.”

John felt his entire world-view lurch again. _Mary was one of them?_ “I was her target?” All the little jokes she’d told, the endless disbelief, the slight mocking tones as she read out bits of his old blog. She’d already begun rending his soul. He was low when they’d met, a broken man, but now he could see how she’d been poking at his wounds, keeping the bleeding going, deliberately undermining all the pride he’d once felt in the work. She really was good, he’d been _grateful_ that she was so willing to be with someone like him, like he’d been lucky or something. He’d been so content to just be ordered around like a mindless puppet and she’d openly delighted in it. Now he understood why. She’d been toying with him. She’d known Sherlock hadn’t really died, and used John to bring her enemy close enough for her to kill.

“In the midnight hour.” Sherlock sighed softly, sadly, “At midnight you would have been gone. _Moonlight_. Her trademark.”

“Moonlight?” John was beginning to put things together. It was making sense, not a lot of course, but some. “ _Claire du lune_.” Mary wore that scent constantly. John’s clothing was saturated with it, there was no mistaking it for anything else.

“Yes John. Her great joke was _to never quit her day-job_ , and she didn’t. She’s quite a good nurse, isn’t she?” John had to sit down, sinking into his old chair. _She was_. His clothes felt wrong, and he found his hands unbuttoning his rented jacket. He tugged it off, rolled it up and left it on the side-table. Sherlock was silent for a minute, “We have to go John, we don’t have a huge amount of time but we have some. She’s figure out where you went soon enough. She will come after us. Clean up and change into something more tactical, and then we have to leave. Quickly John. I’ll be fine for now, and your med-kit is portable. We’ll bring it with us if you still feel the need to fuss later.”

John responded. He stood up, pressed his handgun into Sherlock’s palm, then marched back up the stairs, and went back to his wardrobe. Mary had done her best to brand him as hers. He never thought he’d be so grateful that she hadn’t wanted his old things in their new place, nothing he was about to wear had a trace of her on it. The thought of it made him want to vomit. On impulse he gathered up everything he had chosen, made a naked dash to the loo, and had the fastest most thorough shower of his life using the products that Mrs. Hudson must have kept in place despite the flat being empty. Now he felt better even though Sherlock was tapping at the door. “Good idea John, but hurry, hurry!”

John hadn’t forgotten how to get ready on the double. He’d been in the army far too long; some habits were ingrained. When he’d lived with Sherlock _back then_ John had been able to roll out of bed and into new clothes, and meet Sherlock on the street where the detective was hailing a cab, and John would ride at his side with breakfast in his hand. Ever the soldier, this time was no different. It had taken barely a minute to strip the water from his body, dried himself perfunctorily with the stale but clean towels Mrs. Hudson must have changed out, and climbed into his old clothes.

 All his old things were familiar and well-worn, all fitting him as perfectly now as they did back then. It was like he was getting ready to shrug himself back into his old life, and John felt like he’d come back alive. Tying his brogues tight took a few seconds more, but then John was back in the front room, tucking his gun into his waistband, thrusting his old knife through his belt on his hip, obscuring them with his old jumper, and shutting their med-kit. One more minute had him following Sherlock down the stairs, but out through the back door and into the alley.

They darted down the back alley, nearly making it to the street before it was cut off by a long dark car. At first John thought Mycroft had sent aid their way, but to his bemusement, Mary’s ex-boyfriend climbed out of the passenger side just as Mary opened the driver. She had managed to shed her wedding gown, and was dressed in a tight-fitting outfit in black. Neither hesitated to abandon their vehicle, dashing forward and reaching for something behind their respective back. John didn’t hesitate either. Dropping his med bag, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and yanked the taller man backward and behind him. Turning on his heel, John reversed direction abruptly, pushing Sherlock in front of him to urge the ill man to move faster. The other end of the alley darkened as yet another vehicle pulled up to block it. A man jumped out and shouted, “John! Faster!”

“Greg!” John was shocked. The DI was still dressed in his wedding finery, but his face was serious. A handgun materialized and John rushed Sherlock faster still. He heard a loud popping sound behind him and a whoosh graze past him. Sherlock jerked a bit but kept running. He reached the car first, scrabbling at the handhold to yank the door open. Both of them piled inside, and John twisted around at the last second. John managed to get the door closed just enough, a bullet whizzed through the air, fragmenting the shatter-proof glass but not breaking it. The impact point was directly in front of John’s eye.

John realized he had his handgun out and was already pushing the door forward. Mary and David realized that the odds had changed dramatically, and attempted to backpedal toward their abandoned car. Greg shot his handgun twice, forcing the pair to dive behind Mrs. Hudson’s bins for cover, and John ran forward.

Adrenalin raced through him and suddenly John’s body forgot the years of inactivity and grief, recalling all the much longer years of rigorous training and practice. Captain Watson wasn’t a man to be trifled with, he was a man to be respected, and even feared. He was a man who had no real enemies because anyone who had ever seriously wished him harm was long since dead. John’s nightmares weren’t filled with memories of what he’d seen, they were filled with dreams of what he could still do if he let himself go, and after all of anger and suffering he’d gone through, after all the lies that he’d lived with, after all the everything that had pricked and poked at the calm web he’d bound himself in, Captain John Hamish Watson’s fearsome battle-ridden nightmares were about to be realized once more.

David attacked just before Mary did but John didn’t veer away. With his gun in one hand and his still razor sharp knife now in the other, John Watson leapt willingly forward. David swung hard and deliberately aimed for John’s ribs, but it didn’t slow John down. All David saw was a flicker of silver before he howled, his left arm no longer functional. Mary was right there, and before John could do more to his unexpected foe, she had her own weapon up at aimed behind John.

 _Sherlock!_ Without the slightest pause John reversed the arc of his arm’s swing and managed to clip the inside of Mary’s wrist. Tendon damaged, the heavy handgun dropped to the ground. Mary’s legs were perfectly fit, and she was unexpectedly dextrous in her attack. John regretfully recalled how flexible she’d been in bed, and didn’t appreciate the clip to the ear he suffered when she attempted to kick him in the head. John dropped down and managed to get a shot off in David’s direction, but missed as Mary managed to kick him a second time, knocking his entire body to the side and sending his shot wild.

It failed to stop John completely. He was enraged but not out of control. With a snarling grin John returned the favor with more success than Mary expected. His kick was true and painfully effective. She grunted as she fell to the ground, but David was already up and throwing himself bodily at John. They tumbled to the ground, their guns lost in the flurry of strikes and blows.

David died quickly, and John was surprised at how much regret he felt that the man hadn’t suffered even more. He didn’t even know David, had only met him once before the wedding, and only for a moment. Mary was obviously shocked, her face almost ridiculously stunned looking. She must have thought she’d been playing house with a broken old housedog, a lap animal that would thump its tail for any bit of attention and be content. Mary Morstan _must_ have known about John’s military record, she should have if she was a clever an opponent as she must have been, but John didn’t read that in her eyes right then. What he saw was a woman who was seeing something for the very first time and realizing she’d seriously miscalculated. If John wanted, he could take her to pieces and leave her to bleed out next to her ex. Mary’s gun came up and her finger began to tighten. “Don’t.” he warned.

“I have a contract.” Mary said, her tone without inflection, “Bet you wish you’d just gotten married. We’d be at our reception by now.” Mary’s arm moved in a blur of flesh and steel and John knew he’d breathed his last. Instead of dying though, a blossom of red appeared on Mary’s forehead, and John watched silently as his almost-wife dropped straight down, dead before she hit the cracked and pitted pavements.

 “John!” He turned and saw Sherlock and Greg running toward him, the DI calling out with concern, “Are you hurt?” Mycroft was standing on the street next to Lestrade’s car, and he was handing a small handgun off to his ever-present assistant. John passingly recognized Anthea, or at least, that was the name she’d given him years ago. She could be anyone now, not that it mattered.

John stared at Sherlock, his eyes wild, “No.” he nearly growled the words out, “Sherlock is.” The shot from earlier had grazed Sherlock’s ribs, “He needs a hospital.”

“So do you mate,” Greg nodded at John, “Looks like you’ll have matching scars.” John looked down at himself. He hadn’t noticed the holes in his jumper, or his shirt. He hadn’t felt the warm spill of blood, nor the pull of the seared and now frayed flesh against his ribs.

Greg picked up John’s med-bag, and called in a team to deal with the bodies. Mycroft was off with Sherlock, the not-dead younger brother having a quiet word with his worried sibling while sitting in the backseat of Greg’s car. John stood there and bled quietly, giving his brain time to absorb and deal with the startling changes in his life. This morning he’d been stumbling through the world, blind and unaware. This afternoon Sherlock was alive and Mary was dead, and John could barely wrap his mind around those two irrefutable facts. His heart was thumping in his chest, and it felt like the entire world had shifted into color, and John hadn’t even realized everything had been black and white.

Greg led him back to the street. Sherlock stood there, and watched him approach, “He needs to sit down,” ordered John, “He needs looking after, I hope someone has called someone for help.”

Mycroft coolly nodded his head at John as if it were any ordinary afternoon, and two dead bodies weren’t laying right out in the open not ten meters away. “People will be arriving shortly to attend to the scene. There’s nothing more to concern you Doctor Watson. In fact, if you wished to return indoors immediately, you won’t have to be bothered at all.”

 _Hint received_. John and Sherlock returned upstairs to their old rooms inside 221 B Baker Street along with John’s med kit. He began to clean Sherlock’s wound, not saying a word to the equally silent patient. Ten minutes later a somber and well-dressed man with a rolling case arrived and neatly stitched both men closed. Silently he handed John stronger than normal pain medication, a pre-filled prescription for antibiotics, and spare clean bandages to replace the new ones he fixed into place. He departed as soon as he was done his task, no questions as and definitely none answered. Barely a minute after he left, a firm knock on the door announced the arrival of piping hot takeaway in generous portions. John put everything out on the currently spotlessly clean kitchen table, and made tea. He used their old kettle, a green and bulbous affair that sat a bit sideways on the hob so it never heated evenly. It boiled up water just fine though, and only a few minutes passed before he was able to fix two large cups of tea to go with their meal.

They ate silently. John watched as Sherlock packed away two large platefuls of food, rapidly shoveling in every spoonful as if he hadn’t had his fill in years. Perhaps he hadn’t. As soon as they were done, John doled out their pain meds, and made Sherlock drink a large glass of water to go with it. The thin man’s belly bulged now, obviously distended from a far too thin waistline. Sherlock was clearly weary now, almost swaying with exhaustion. John chivvied the man into the shower after taping a watertight seal over his new bandages, and stood near the door waiting for him to be done. Sherlock washed up and managed to get himself into an old pair of pyjamas.

John made Sherlock get into his bed, tucking the tall man in. Sherlock was asleep before the covers were even draw up fully. John left him there and returned to his old bedroom to change out of his still bloody outside clothes. He took pyjamas to the washroom and used a flannel to wipe himself down carefully. He brushed his teeth, and finished all the little things he normally did before he went to bed. He felt tired now, almost pleasantly worn out. He shut off the lights and checked the flat, locking and bolting the doors behind him before taking himself to Sherlock’s room.

Soft snores buzzed through the air. John didn’t wait long before he just climbed into bed beside the slumbering man. He kept a decent distance between them, but kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face for as long as he could keep them open. Nothing in particular went through his mind. He wasn’t exactly blank, but he didn’t have a particularly active inner monologue. Finally, his eyes closed of their own accord, and his much louder snores overwhelmed the almost demure ones that continued unabated.

Morning was unreal. John felt gentle fingertips running over the bandages on his side, tracing over the skin and muscles that surrounded it. He lay there and smiled, enjoying the tender attentions he was receiving. Sherlock was pressed tight to John’s side, one long leg flung over John’s hips. It was a comfortable intimacy that he had no problem relaxing into. John kept his eyes shut, but he knew that Sherlock knew he was awake. He didn’t move though, wordlessly giving Sherlock permission by simply spreading himself out a bit, widening his stance on the bed, knees a bit further apart, and his free arm at a greater angle from his torso.

Sherlock hesitated only a fraction of a moment before his fingers began to explore their much increased range. John wondered only for a moment if Sherlock truly understood the change in the nature of their original dynamic, but he needn’t have worried. That slight hesitation was the only reluctance Sherlock Holmes evinced before he began an all-out blatant exploration of all the ways to arouse John Watson. The man had no clear idea what he was doing, that was obvious. His kisses were sloppy and frantic. His hands roamed urgently everywhere, clearly incapable of deciding where to focus. Sherlock’s body rutted against John’s, and before John realized what was happening, he felt Sherlock’s hardness pressing anxiously against his backside. He spoke the first words they’d exchanged for hours, “Oh no you don’t.”

John twisted around and managed to pin Sherlock onto the bed face down. He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck and felt his long thin body arching upward, clearly craving contact. All rational thought seemed to disappear the second that Sherlock’s still lush bottom pressed against John’s now very interested cock. He should have been checking Sherlock’s bandages, or administering his pain meds, or at least getting their course of antibiotics going, or for heaven’s sake, feeding Sherlock something because the man desperately needed feeding up. Instead John found himself lost to his primitive urge to mark and claim Sherlock, sucking hard kisses over the spare flesh of his back, leaving behind a reddened trail of bruises as he worked his way downward.

There was no pretense or coyness, John was focused on only one thing, and that was letting Sherlock know how it was between them. John had never been with a man before but he’d definitely thought about how many opportunities he’d missed with Sherlock, spending long hours fantasizing about what he might have done, or how Sherlock would have looked with John’s fingers stuffed up his arse. He didn’t need to dream any more. John had no idea how much time had passed on by but he had somehow progressed from rubbing at Sherlock’s anus to having his face pressed hard against that hot tight orifice, his tongue stabbing deeply as he worked one finger after another inside, stretching Sherlock wide open and making him slick.

Sherlock didn’t resist. He instead pushed himself back onto his knees, arse high in the air, and used his own hands to keep himself spread. He had been muffling his groans and surprised cries into the pillow, but a sharp poke in the thigh from John somehow let the detective understand that his lover wanted to hear every single noise he was making, and obligingly, he stopped restraining himself. John was in heaven. Sherlock was sensitive and responsive to a degree he should have expected, the man had always been so perceptive, it made sense that his body was reactive and delicious. John kept fucking his fingers in time with his tongue. Suddenly he pulled back, a heavy twang of guilt staying his hand as he carefully extracted his fingers, “I didn’t even ask if this was alright, or if you…”

“If you do not replace your fingers right this second John Hamish Watson, things are going to go _very poorly_ for you in the incredibly immediate future.” Sherlock’s voice was baleful, and the sudden shake he gave his arse was as commanding a gesture as John had ever witnessed, so with a grin he did as requested - sliding three fingers in simultaneously and enjoying the deep groan he wrung from his lover, “It’s so good, John, so much better than I projected. I knew you were worth waiting for, I knew it.”

Sherlock had been waiting for him? John had so many questions but the lack of blood in his brain wasn’t allowing them to be formulated or uttered. All he could manage was the one thing he needed to know, “You aren’t leaving again?”

“No John, gods no.” Sherlock rocked backward, fucking himself harder onto John’s fingers, “I’m back. I’ll tell you everything, anything. Oh fuck John! Please, John, just…I need this, I need you, please, please, there isn’t anyone but you, there can’t be.

John was overwhelmed with a burning need to stake his claim. Sherlock was back from the dead, and for the first time in his life, John knew exactly what he needed and now to get it. Pulling away, he used the only lubricant he had to make Sherlock as wet as possible. Saliva was adequate, if only barely, and it would have to do. Without considering the need for other questions, or even condoms, John pressed the head of his aching cock to Sherlock’s hole and pushed inward. Sherlock’s groan was deep and it was clear that the experience wasn’t entirely painless, but neither man could bring himself to slow down or cease at all. John just kept adding saliva each time he pulled back, pushing inward deeper each time until he was gliding in and out, able to seat himself fully inside Sherlock.

John had never felt arousal like this. It felt strange, almost like he’d been amped up in some strange way so his nerves were capable of imparting larger amounts of information to his brain. Having sex with Sherlock was the most intense experience of his life, each time he pushed inward, he knew he’d never truly enjoyed sex before. This was perfect. The tightness around him was perfect. The heat inside Sherlock’s body was perfect. The way his passage gripped at John was perfect. The smell of Sherlock’s flesh and the tenderness of his skin was perfect. Everything about Sherlock fired John’s senses into overdrive and he knew he’d never be happy unless he remained with this man for the rest of his life. He’d been dead inside because he’d lost Sherlock, and now John was more alive than he’d ever been before.

It lasted forever. John had never had such stamina, never held such sway over a bedmate before. Beneath him Sherlock writhed and cried out, moaning and sighing endlessly as John pleasured him. John only pulled out long enough to reposition Sherlock, finally finding a pose that allowed him to fill Sherlock deeply, to stroke his hard narrow cock, and still be able to reach up and wrap his fingers around Sherlock’s long neck. Sherlock’s body was tense now, every muscle shaking with the imminent release he was about to experience. John knew to brush against Sherlock’s prostate sparingly, most of his thrusts going directly into his body whilst avoiding too much stimulation of that sensitive region. He was rapt, his only focus on tweaking new pleasured responses from Sherlock, of learning how to make him gasp or groan or twitch or shudder. Sweat dripped off both of them, and John took care to keep Sherlock’s hole slick with spit as their encounter grew frantic. This wasn’t just lovemaking, though it was definitely that. This was making a vow, a promise, this was a declaration of intent, a contract between the two of them that needed no real words to seal. John was with Sherlock, full stop. They were together, and from this day forward, nothing would sunder them.

Sherlock came first but John could hardly take in his lover’s experience because his own was transcendent. His back arched and his hips snapped. He felt the head of his cock throb along with his shaft as it expelled one thick mass of semen after another. He didn’t stop moving, rocking himself into Sherlock to push his seed as deep as it would go, filling Sherlock up with as much of John Watson as he could. Sherlock’s come had splattered over the sheets and a bit on the pillows, streaking his lower belly with sliding droplets that the dark haired man ran his hands over, rubbing his essence and John’s sweat into his skin.

John pulled out carefully and leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s filthy hole as it closed itself away. The slippery mess against the friction reddened and slightly swollen flesh was one of the sexiest things John had ever seen, the light smattering of short body hair around his anus pressed flat with quickly drying spit and a bit of John’s come. “Gorgeous.” He whispered, and witnessed Sherlock face, neck, and shoulders grow pink as he blushed deeply. John smiled tenderly at his lover, “You are.” Deep feelings swirled inside John and burst out, “I love you Sherlock, god, I missed you so much.”

Sherlock stared up at him, his beautiful multi-colored eyes wide and startled looking. The pink of his cheeks faded into paleness, and he looked so vulnerable right then. If eyes were windows to the soul, then John Watson was seeing Sherlock Holmes’ soul laid bare in front of him, “It was all for you John. Everything I did, everything I went through, all those months and years I was gone. I did it all for you because…” now he stalled, swallowing hard, “because I love you John. I’m in love with you. Have been a long time, honestly.” His eyes were downcast, “I never hoped, not even once, that you’d return my feelings, not like this.” He looked up, his eyes now shining and filled with a softness John had never seen before, “I love you John. All I want is to be able to be with you in any way you’ll let me, for as long as possible.”

John felt his heart swell even more, and the question came to his lips easily, “Marry me Sherlock. Be mine forever. You’re the one who keeps me alive, and when we’re not together I’m as good as dead. I want to be with you too. I missed you so much, nothing has been right without you. You saved me, more than once, and yesterday you saved me again.”

“I didn’t shoot Mary.” Sherlock sounded puzzled, “That was Mycroft.”

“Remind me to thank him later,” John kissed Sherlock’s cheek, “I mean you stopping that wedding. So?”

Sherlock’s grin was massive, his cheeks pulled into tight folds as his eyes squeezed nearly shut. “Yes. Yes I’ll marry you John.” Whatever else he might have said was lost in the kiss that John was giving him. They had all the time in the world now, time to heal, time to grow, time to live. Sherlock would grow well again, and maybe they’d do the work once more, or maybe they’d retire and start a new life somewhere else. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were finally united, and the sad part of their personal story was over at last.

 


End file.
